


Smarties, Sleeves, and Libations

by SpaghettiAndTheMoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Auror Training, Bartenders, But it's kind of AU, Cause it completely ignores book 7 sorry, Dark Mark, Drarry, Except For I'll Probably Talk About the Fiendfyre at Some Point, HBP compliant, HP: EWE, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I don't wanna tag this as AU, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pining, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-Hogwarts, Sarcasm, Slash, Snark, Tattoos, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaghettiAndTheMoon/pseuds/SpaghettiAndTheMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is a bartender in Muggle London and Harry thinks there's something more to it than that... mild stalking ensues. Takes place 5 years after the war. I'm shite at summaries... just read it (:</p><p>This whole thing started because I wanted a fic where Draco has a tattoo sleeve and I could not find one for the life of me... so I made it myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is my favourite thing, and this is un-betaed as I have a tendency to be too impatient to wait for her to sort through it. (:
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the bar regulars, who are real bar regulars at the restaurant where I used to work.  
> ((Rest in peace, Charlie.))

2nd May, 2003

I saw Malfoy today. I truly could not believe my eyes when I walked into a Muggle pub, of all places, and saw him behind the bar. But it was him, unmistakably. I don’t know if he saw me... but I wasn’t under a glamour or polyjuice, I hardly ever use it when I’m in Muggle London. Why bother? How often do you run into a wizard that you don't want to see in Muggle London? I purposely sat with my back to the bar and spoke as quietly as I could.

It sounds childish, I know. But I haven’t seen him since the war. Well, I saw him from a distance at his father’s trials. But we haven’t spoken a word since the war. His wand is still buried somewhere in my school trunk. So to see him today, on the anniversary of the war... it was just too much for me. The whole reason I was in Muggle London is to avoid the sympathetic glances of ‘Oh, it’s Harry Potter, he’s lost so much,’ or the appreciative glances of ‘Oh, it’s Harry Potter, he saved us all.’ I’ve had enough of that tripe, thank you very much.

But I did listen to him, it couldn’t be helped. He was just standing there, tending bar as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a pureblooded ex-Death Eater to be working in a Muggle pub, let alone at all. So many questions were going through my head. How long had he been working there? Why was he working there? Were the Malfoys in financial trouble? I never thought I’d see that day, but who knows? How did he even stumble across a job in a pub? Granted, he was always aces at Potions, I suppose bartending wouldn’t be too different.

He looked exactly the same. A little healthier, I mean, not the skeletal skin-and-bones teen that he had been in sixth and seventh year. He wore his hair longer, and not slicked back. Even in the Muggle world, he stood out. It was weird to see him in Muggle clothes, though. Muggle jeans, and a muggle t-shirt. The sort with the buttons down the front and a big open neck. He had lots of tattoos, though, but I didn’t dare look long enough to see what of. They were all on his arm, with the faded Dark Mark. And there were some on his chest, too, peeking out from the top of his shirt.

Godric, I’m starting to think Hermione was always right when she said I was obsessed with him. I’ve barely thought of him for around six years now, and then all of a sudden I stumble across him and he’s all I can think about. It’s all just too strange... I have to go back. Right?

Shit. It’s good I put that in writing, now I can’t deny it in a couple years when I get all ashamed and weird about it. Ugh. Fucking Malfoy, he just always got to me, all the fucking time. I’m going to find out what he’s up to. There’s no way he’s changed that much since the war... just picture that. The pureblood prat working, in muggle clothes, in a muggle bar, seeming perfectly at ease. There’s a trick in there somewhere, some weird plot. There just is.

I hate myself a little for caring so much. Damn.

xx~xxx~xx

“Jesus, Carol, what now?”

The bint was whiny and she always had a fucking problem. Always.

_Beer is beer._

“You know, Draco, that you’re supposed to let it sit before you serve it to me. That’s what you do with Guinness.”

“Carol, love. What, may I ask, is the difference if it is sitting under my tap or under your large nose? Just wait to drink it, it is the same bloody thing.”

“Don’t be a cow. That’s the rules. I don’t make beer, I just drink it.”

“You don’t, though, you just stare at it and patronise me. Best watch out that I don’t spit in it next time.”

Draco watched as Carol huffed, flicking her dark locks out of her eyes. He knew that she was right, but he still had a point. It doesn’t matter where it sits. It doesn’t. He was just in one of his moods, the ones that took him over and made him really want to hex every damn customer that came through the door of the pub for no good reason other than the simple fact that he could. He still had his wand on him, of course, despite working in a Muggle pub. It was in his pocket on most days, though today it was tucked in to his boot. These jeans did not leave room for more than one wand, thank you very much. Poncy? Yes. Best arse ever? Also yes. These jeans got him brilliant tips from men and women alike. And there was no (little) shame in that.

Draco stretched, using the bar to twist round and hear his back make a delightful cracking sound. He sighed in contentment, eyes darting to the door as he heard it creak open. Not a regular patron, but he spared him a glance anyway, greeting him with a tiny nod of his head. He was surprised when the man pulled up a stool at the bar- it was only two in the afternoon, and Carol usually had the whole place to herself at this time. Only sad people and ugly people drank at two in the afternoon. And by that account, this man must have been sad. Draco darted his eyes over to Carol and took note of her eyeing him, as well. Definitely sad, then. Not that Carol had any sort of respectful taste, but.

“What’ll it be, then?”

The man looked up at Draco, seeming almost nervous.

“Uh, just a Strongbow.”

Draco smirked to himself. Fucking Strongbow, this guy was going to give Carol a run for her money in the Irritating Beer category.

“Nice, er, nice tattoos you’ve got, there.”

Draco turned back to the man, irritated that he didn’t even have the audacity to toss him a ‘thanks for the beer’ before commenting on his appearance.

Draco merely eyed the man and waited for him to continue.

“ ‘Mean... you’ve got quite a few.”

“Yes, thank you for stating the obvious.”

Draco raised an eyebrow as he watched the man reach up and tug on his light brown hair, a confused look taking settling on the man’s features as it fell right back into place.

“Right... let me know if you need anything else.”

At this point, Carol the Cow was looking like a peach.

“What’s his deal, then?”

Draco let out a laugh. He couldn’t help it, honestly.

“Oh, Carol... let me pour you another.”

“So what’s your name, then?” came the man’s voice from a few seats away.

“What’s yours?”

“I asked you first.”

Draco stared. Did this fool seriously just pull an ‘I asked you first?’  
The man let out a grunt and then: “Taylor.”

“Well, charmed... Taylor. Name’s Draco.”

Salazar, he hated this part. No one was named Draco. Those ridiculous Americans that named their children Apple and Blanket were almost better. Almost.

“Weird name.”

“It’s Latin.”

“For ‘bartender’?”

“For ‘dragon,’ you twit. Now drink your beer before we play twenty questions.”

The man- Taylor, Draco corrected- took a sip before he pressed on.

“So your parents were dragon-tamers, then?”

Draco stilled. A wizard, then? Or just an asshat?

“Why, were your parents seamstresses?”

“Mmm, touche.”

“You’ll soon learn that you don’t want to verbally spar with me, unless you want to be very, very embarrassed.”

He looked Taylor right in the eye, searching for the knowing glint, the look that he saw every once in a while that said ‘I know you’re a Wizard, and I’m one, too.’ Instead of a glint, Taylor’s dark brown eyes darted away, clearly uncomfortable with the eye contact. Interesting.

“Right. You never answered about your tattoos.”

“I wasn’t aware that you actually posed a question about them.”

Draco leaned a hip against the bar and crossed his arms against his chest, raising his eyebrow once more. _I could do this all day._

Taylor let out a grunt and smiled despite himself, and Draco mentally awarded himself another point.

“Right. Why do you have so many?”

Draco sighed, diving into the simplest explanation that he had come up with since he had started getting the ink.

“Do you collect anything, Taylor?”

“Socks.”

Draco blinked. He could not have just said ‘socks.’ Who the fuck collects socks?

“Sorry, what?”

“Socks. I collect socks.”

Draco was satisfied as he watched the blush creep up Taylor’s cheeks. As long as he knew that his sock-collecting was absurd.

“Well why do you collect socks?”

Taylor shrugged, tugging on his hair once more. “Dunno. I guess I got some as a present once from a friend at school and I just kept getting more after that.”

Draco was intrigued by the sad tinge to Taylor’s voice, wondering why on Earth someone would be sad about socks. He didn’t dare ask, partially for fear of the answer, and partially because he didn’t want to appear interested.

“Same reason I collect tattoos. I also got one while I was in school... though it wasn’t quite a present, and I’ve been getting more ever since.”

Taylor smirked. “Which was your first, then?”

Draco stiffened. If the man was a wizard, he surely knew who Draco was this whole time and had been having him on. Even now, so long after the war, his family’s part was well-known, and Draco was quite recognisable. And if, by some crazy circumstance, Taylor wasn’t sure of who Draco was, this would most certainly confirm it. Even still, Draco didn’t want to pause too long. He wasn’t ashamed of the Dark Mark, but he sure as hell was tired of customers asking about it. That’s why he started getting tattoos in the first place. A sleeve, the Muggles called it. The Mark didn’t stick out as much when his entire forearm was covered.

He placed his left arm on the bar, exposing the underside to Taylor. 

“That one was the first. The faded one, there, in the middle.”  
Taylor gasped, and Draco was slightly impressed at how near to inaudible it was. He looked up from his own arm and into Taylor’s eyes once more, and was impressed to see no fear there.

“It’s lovely.”

Draco took his arm off of the bar without breaking eye contact, waiting for Taylor to dart his eyes away again. He didn’t.

“What was on your first sock, then?” Draco asked, clearing his throat.

Taylor smiled a tiny little smile, and it looked almost rueful. “Sports balls... it’s kind of a long story.”

“Another story for another day.”

Taylor broke the eye contact then and Draco hated himself a little bit for assuming there would be another day. He hadn’t been interested in learning more about someone in quite a while. But Taylor was nice, albeit strangely nervous, and certainly a wizard after his reaction to Draco’s mark. But he wasn’t afraid of it. And that, coupled with his strange sock addiction, was enough to spike Draco’s interest.

“If you’ll tell me about another tattoo.”

Draco allowed himself a small smile. “Deal.”

xx~xxx~xx

Draco woke up the next day feeling strangely light, refusing to admit to himself why just yet. He enjoyed his shower and his cuppa just like he did every morning, but today there wasn’t the tiny voice at the back of his head insisting that there must be something more interesting to do than work. Because he knew that, even if it wasn’t today, he would see Taylor again. And that was interesting.

He dressed mindlessly, pulling on a pair of jeans and shoving his wand into his pocket while he thought of what other obscure questions Taylor would ask him. He couldn’t get the mumbled “It’s lovely” from the day before out of his head. Who called a Dark Mark lovely? Even people that didn’t know what it was would never say that. Taylor’s tone was almost... reverent? That wasn’t the word Draco wanted to use, but he couldn’t quite grasp one that was better.

The walk to work passed quickly, and when he walked into the pub he saw Carol already waiting for him, talking to one of the other regulars, Charlie. Draco smiled to himself at the scene; Charlie was in every day; he didn’t drink, but he always brought candy for the staff. He would turn 90 in the Summer, but he had this spunk about him that Draco really appreciated. He didn’t often sit at the bar, but when he did Draco was always entertained. They would have intellectual conversations, which Draco really valued; it wasn’t every day someone was a stimulating match for him intellectually. Other days, Draco would just listen to the multitude of stories Charlie had accumulated over the years. They ranged from every topic under the sun, and Draco enjoyed the break from being the one that had to entertain.

“Charles. It’s been a while, how are you?”

“Hello, sport. Get’cher candy before Carol eats it all.”

“I’m trying to watch my figure. You won’t have all my hard work go to waste, would you, Charles?”

Charlie granted Draco a grin, sliding a small tube of Smarties towards him. Draco gave in easily, just like he always did, winking at Charlie and sliding the candy into his pocket for later. 

“Carol. How are you today?”

Draco was afraid of the answer, but he somehow always forgot that until after he asked. Carol was the type of customer that took that question exactly as it was. If she was having the worst day of her life, she would tell you just that, not sparing a single detail. Same if it was the best day of her life, or anywhere in between. It was extremely rare for her to give a simple ‘Well, thanks.’

“Don’t worry, Draco, no sob stories today. I’ve got Charlie here to entertain me. You’re off the hook.”

Draco feigned a pout before heaving a dramatic sigh. Carol ate it up.

He began his duties, cleaning up his space and re-organising everything to be just the way he liked it, washing all the bottle openers and the corkscrews. It wasn’t his fault that they were never properly washed before he was in. He lost himself in the task, the familiarity of it all taking over him. Rinse, scrub, twist, scrub, rinse, dry. Rinse, scrub, twist, rinse, dry. Rinse, scrub, twist--

“Now who’s this looker?”

Charlie’s outburst broke Draco’s concentration, and even as he looked up and towards the door, he knew who the ‘looker’ would be before they met eyes.

“Back so soon?”

“What can I say? I’m just dying to hear about another tattoo. Well... that and it’s been a rotten day.”

Draco glanced at the clock. It was just barely three in the afternoon.

“How have you even managed to have a full day, let alone a rotten one, by three pm?”

“It’s kind of a talent of mine.”

“I see. Strongbow, then?”

It was a simple question, but it made his heart race. He tapped his fingers gently against the edge of the bar, realising that he was fidgeting but unable to stop. Perfect.

“I was thinking of something a bit stronger...”

“That bad, huh?”

Draco reached for a highball glass as he studied Taylor’s face. He was equally as... not ugly as the day before, but he looked worn down today. Draco wanted to know why, and that annoyed him greatly. For some reason he felt like it would take quite a bit to wear this man down, and he wanted to know what caused it today. But that wasn’t really a question that a bar guest would answer plainly. Unless it was Carol.

“You’re staring at the poor boy, sport.”

The poor boy blushed and scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand.  
“Look at him, Charles. Those lines on his forehead, his eyebrows all scrunched up. They weren’t there yesterday.”

“You’re observant.”

Draco smirked. It wasn’t a question. He was, though. Observant. He always had been, it was one of the things that saved his ass- in school, in the war, at work.

“Quite.”

He poured Taylor two fingers of scotch, feeling warm and at ease. Today was one of the days that he liked his job- as much as Carol irritated him, she was one of his favourite regulars, and so was Charlie. Adding Taylor to the mix just felt nice, like the sun warming your skin on a perfect Summer day in Paris. Refreshing. Different, somehow.

“So, sport? What’s got’cher face all scrunched up like that? You look about as old as I am.”

Draco smirked at Charlie, feeling the smirk spread into a real smile as he watched Charlie break out into his horse, raucous laughter.

Taylor sighed deeply, spinning the glass in his hand and looking very contemplative, indeed.

“Well... I’m a teacher. A trainer, of sorts. I got a new batch of students today and they’re... hopeless.”

He let out a sigh, draining the entire glass in one go. Draco might have been a little impressed. Just a little. And curious. A wizard teacher? At Hogwarts? Durmstrang? But he had said trainer, as well...? Draco added confused to his list of emotions. He sighed.

“Don’t forget about first day jitters and all that, yeah?”

Taylor smirked, and the expression seemed out of place on him. “I wish I could blame it on that, dragon. It’s even worse, believe me. Nothing a little distraction won’t fix.”

Draco cursed Taylor and his words immediately, his brain mutating the words into a distraction very different than the one Taylor was after. He thought maybe he could change that, though. All in good time.

“A tattoo story, then? I assure you they really aren’t that interesting.”

He looked up at the bar, and was a little bit surprised to see all three pairs on him, expectant. He had never really talked to Charlie or Carol about his tattoos, he supposed. Carol was always too busy talking his damn ear off, and he always had more important things to discuss with Charlie.

“Right, then. Would you like to pick one?” He held his arm out in viewing range of his three guests, annoyingly intrigued by the whole game. He watched Taylor rake his eyes over his arm, and he could sense him trying to memorise every last inch, not wanting to miss anything. He wondered, if his intuition was right and he was a wizard, Taylor would spot the snitch hidden in the sleeve. Lost in his own curiosity, he almost didn’t feel the fingers graze over his forearm. Almost. Right above the inside of his elbow, he felt the fingers trace gently, landing right in the crook of his elbow. Or elbow pit, as he referred to it. Taylor’s touch was careful, not wanting to intrude, but when Draco looked up to catch his expression, he was deep in concentration, awe. Draco knew what he was tracing, he knew his tats with his eyes closed standing on his head in a pile of snow. Not that that’d been tested, of course.

It was his tree piece, a beautiful, nearly naked tree with the roots tracing his veins into his elbow pit and curling into an almost-sort of-maybe heart. It was a very sentimental piece and the only other soul that knew its significance was his tattoo artist. The tree had leaves surrounding its roots, five of them, one for each person he had loved and lost. Still on the tree’s branches were four leaves; he had been toying with adding a fifth for his second cousin, Teddy. All things considered, Draco didn’t blame Taylor for staring at it. It was an intricate piece, each leaf detailed to symbolise whomever it stood for. Lucius’ leaf, in particular, always stuck out to Draco whenever he looked at the piece, the heavy black lines leaping out in contrast to his pale, nearly translucent skin.

“Will you tell me about this one?”

The question was so quiet, so soft, that Draco almost didn’t hear it. That reverent tone he had a glimpse of when Taylor saw the Mark was back, and Draco was torn. Strangely enough, he felt compelled to be honest with Taylor, a man he had just met, yet when his own mother had noticed the new ink, he had brushed off her question; King of Avoidance. He let a little smile creep onto his face, bringing him back to the present.

“Interesting choice. It... it represents the people in my life. The leaves on the ground are people that are gone. Have died. The leaves on the tree are for the people I still keep close. You’ll notice how few there are still attached to the tree.”

He watched Taylor take in the explanation, loving the way he took his time to really soak it in. This was no ordinary man. And somehow, Draco couldn’t quite accept his curiosity. Why did Taylor want to know so much about him? Not that Draco could really comment on the matter, since he was equally as curious. But he has an excuse, bartender and all. It’s part of his job to be interested. Of course it is.

“The leaves are all so... different.”

“Just like the people, Taylor.”

Draco sighed, memories of each individual flitting through his mind. He could feel Taylor resting his forearm on his own, tracing his finger over Snape’s leaf; so gently that Draco had to suppress a shiver. He looks up, meeting Taylor’s eyes, silently daring him to ask another question about it. Taylor’s eyes don’t move from his, and there’s a familiar look there- challenge, he thinks, and he’s instantly thrown back to all those days on the Quidditch pitch, in Potions, or just eating breakfast in the Great Hall. Potter. But the look is all wrong on Taylor’s hazel eyes.

Draco hears Charlie cough, and when he tears his eyes away from Taylor’s, he’s staring, along with Carol who is so flushed that she looks sunburnt. Taylor’s voice makes him turn right back to him, not wanting to lose the challenge.

“This leaf?”

“A teacher of mine. A mentor, of sorts. My closest friend, towards the end...”

And dammit, he hated when his voice got scratchy, but his heart still hurt when it came to Severus, and he honestly didn’t think it would ever stop. To this day, he still felt partially to blame. He looked down at the leaf, the black outline filled halfway with green, the rest with white. A stark black line was drawn right down the leaf’s middle, a snake curled up at the tip of the leaf. Because a part of Draco died that day, too. He sent a silent apology up to Sev, startling when he heard Taylor’s barstool scraping against the wooden floorboards.

“It’s lovely,” he said, sliding a few pounds across the bar and turning to make his exit.  
“No.” And there it was, out before Draco could stop himself.

“It’s on me today, mate. See you soon, yeah?”

The surprise on Taylor’s face was visible as he re-pocketed the money, giving Draco a small smile as he tugged on his fringe.

“Thanks... And yeah, I’ll, er... I’ll be around.”

Draco smiled to himself, unable to stop the feeling of how nice it was to share a little piece of himself with someone else. 

Of course, he would never admit it.

xx~xxx~xx

6th May, 2003

I went back. Twice. I don’t know why I have no bloody control when it comes to this man. And no bravado, since I wore someone else’s skin. Damn Polyjuice, leaves my body feeling weird for hours after.

But it’s him, there's no denying it now. I saw the Mark, looked at his other tattoos. He told me about one today, a tree with all these leaves symbolising people in his life that have died. There were more leaves on the ground than there were on the tree... my stomach churned when I noticed that. There are only four leaves left on the tree. Four people in his life that he keeps close.

I want to know who they are. I want to know all about this new Draco. No point in stopping now, right?

Wrong. I should stop. But I’m a grown man and I can make my own decisions, even if they involve borrowing someone else’s body to stalk Draco Malfoy.

Merlin, that sounds ridiculous. But honestly, in the world of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy... what else is new?

~~xx~xxx~xx~~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter dedicated to my sister and my 'mum,' Hazza and Cheryl, who I lovingly put into this fic as OCs... oops (:

Harry fucking hated rain. And calling this weather rain would be putting it nicely. It was more like a fucking downpour of every wet weather substance there was. And Harry was having none of it today.

He was absolutely tired of the Ministry sending him the most hopeless Aurors of each new bunch. Just because he was Harry Potter didn't mean he could work miracles. Sure, he had survived the killing curse... twice. But that didn't mean he was some sort of supernatural being that could magically make these idiots Aurors. And the turn around rate? He only had four weeks. Because that was possible with these people that supposedly passed all their tests and whatnot. They may as well have been squibs, and Harry was fucking sick of it.

He was dying to get out of the rain, smashing about in the puddles was doing nothing for him today. If he was honest, he did quite like the sound it made, but it just wasn't having the same affect after his failure of a class. Honestly, who put these people through? Who told them they could be Aurors? He had doubted _himself_ at some points in the training, and he had defeated the damn Dark Lord. These people... These people couldn't cast a decent Expelliarmus. And to make it even better, he truly could not decide who was the worst. Normally, in every bunch, there were one or two that were just really awful. Awful enough that even the other nitwits laughed at them. There was none of that here.

Today, though, he thought it may have been the young one, Harriet. She was a transfer from the US Aurors and had to go through training again, since they did things so differently across the pond. They also apparently passed everyone, because there was no way her brain stored anything except for her favourite colours of nail varnish. And she fucking _loved_ him, too. Always pointing out that they had the same name and that they both had black hair and that they were almost twins and hahahahahahaha! She finished more sentences with giggles than actual words. She's apparently a very famous actor in the US, some Broadway performer who left a show about tap dancing newspaper boys to be an Auror. But the only thing Harry could think of was what he was doing at 17- fighting a war that saved the world- and what she was doing- failing to cast first year spells because somehow every word reminded her of a song.

As Harry continued stomping through the puddles, unfulfilled, he decided that today it was a tie between Harriet and Cheryl. Cheryl was the complete opposite of Harriet... she was about twice as old as Harry, and she looked at him in such a way that he often had to check if he had clothes on. She was definitely fit, but, if Harry was honest with himself, he hadn't played on her team in quite a few years. It didn't help that he blushed easily, either, because whenever she would rake her eyes over him and see the blush that took over his whole body, she would smirk. She definitely knew how un-comfortable she made him, and she seemed to enjoy it. The only thing that she had over Harriet, and the rest of the group, is that she's actually pretty decent with spells and charms. It's her unprofessional behaviour and her case strategy that need work. Okay, mostly her behaviour.

Harry was so busy ranting in his head that he hadn't realised where his puddle-sloshing had taken him. He was standing on a corner in Muggle London, just a few blocks away from Malfoy's pub. He hadn't been in for a few days, not since his first day with the new group. He'd been trying to stay away, feeling like too much of a grown up to resort back to his old Malfoy-stalking tactics. Only this time, he'd used someone else's skin instead of the invisibility cloak... and he honestly wasn't sure which was worse. Merlin.

There he was, standing on the corner and staring in the direction of the pub. He wanted to go in. He wanted to go in badly, and he cursed himself for not bringing along Polyjuice to work that day. But truly, the last thing he needed was the Ministry to do a random security check that day and find the 'Great Harry Potter' toting around a vial of Polyjuice and some poor bloke's hair. The good news was that he was wearing Muggle clothes... he liked them best under his Auror robes, they were most comfortable. Wizard robes and clothing were still a little foreign to Harry. Too many unnecessary buttons and zippers and doo-dads. But could he really stroll into the pub, as himself? Would Malfoy hex him? He took a step closer, the temptation to witness Malfoy's reaction too great. He wondered, though, could he be himself? Would Malfoy recognise his personality as Taylor's? He took a step back, tugging at his sopping hair, torn. He lifted a hand to scrub at his face, drying it, and when his hand landed back at his side, he had decided.

His first few steps were hesitant, but the momentum soon followed. He cast a wandless drying charm on himself and pulled up the collar on his jacket for the last few blocks. Now it would appear that he had taken just a short walk to get to the pub... no need to look like a drowned rat. Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, realising that he was sort of primping for Draco Malfoy. Annoyed, he shoved his hands in his pockets, splashing in puddles for the last block. He reached the pub faster than he wanted to, gave his hair a quick shake, and pushed open the door, scowling. He was already second-guessing his decision to stop in as himself. He took off his jacket as he walked towards the bar, noticing that the woman with the dark hair was there again. He almost gave her a wave before remembering that she wouldn't have a clue in the slightest who he was. He selected a seat close to the woman, dropping his jacket in between them as he pulled up a stool. There was no one behind the counter. What if he wasn't in today? After Harry finally got the momentary bravery to come in as himself... he sighed, scrubbing at his face again. It didn't matter. It didn't, because no matter who was working, Harry really needed a drink. If it was Malfoy, he would probably need two.

He must've made a noise, because the woman looked over at him, her head cocked in concern.

"S-sorry..."

"Don't be, love!"

She didn't sound the same as she had the other day. Actually, Harry couldn't quite remember what she'd sounded like at all. She must have spoken in front of him before. Had he really been so concentrated on Malfoy and his tattoos that he had tuned her out? He didn't like that possibility.

"I don't mean to be nosy, but I've not seen you in here before, and I'm in here nearly every day. Are you a friend of Draco's? You do look like his type."

Harry heard a crash from the room behind the bar, and then:

"Carol! Don't be trying to set me up while I'm doing you a favour, you bloody bint!"

Harry laughed. He couldn't help it, the whole thing was just so preposterous. Malfoy working in a pub, doing someone a favour, yelling at customers.

"Never you mind, Draco, dear! He _is_ just your type! Dark hair, even if it is a tad messy... and bright eyes!"

Harry swallowed, and it felt like tacks. How could he not have known? Malfoy is gay...? And suddenly, it all made sense, his memories of Malfoy playing in front of him like some bizarre film. The only girl that had ever paid any attention to him in school was Pansy, and they'd known each other since birth; one of those creepy pureblood arranged friendships that everyone hoped turned into marriage. And now that he thought about it, he did recall seeing an article or two in the Daily Prophet over the years, linking him to various men. Saying horrible things, actually, that he was disgracing the Malfoy name, that it was a good thing his father wasn't alive to see this. At the time Harry was just relieved that the news wasn't on him for a change. Of course, it never lasted very long. But Merlin, did it make sense. Malfoy is gay.

No sooner than Harry could finish his thought did he hear footsteps coming from the back room. They seemed to get louder with every step, and Harry felt like his heart had started to beat in time. Step-thud, step-thud, step-slam. And Harry definitely had not given a single butterfly permission to throw a party in his stomach, and he'd definitely not given them permission to slam dance at said party. He wasn't even sure if he'd be able to keep a drink down. Step-thud, step-thud.

"Christ, Carol, this box is heavy! You best appreciate this. And it's also in your best interest to be telling the truth about this man out here. I know how you love to blow things out of proportion."

Harry watched as Malfoy but the box down on the bar, right in between Carol and himself. Merlin, it was strange to be this close to him in his own skin. It was so strange, and Harry couldn't pin why it was so different, but it was. Perhaps it was more of a risk? Whatever it was, it fascinated him. He watched as Malfoy slid Carol a 40 of Guinness, barely hearing the insult he slid along with it over his heart beating in his ears.

"And now I can focus on... you."

He watched Malfoy turn, and it was like it was in slow motion. He had this smile on his face, a real smile, and his eyes were all bright and weird, and Godric, he was smouldering at Harry. And then it was gone as soon as it had appeared, the smile warped into a smirk that was still so familiar, despite its five year absence from Harry's life. The brightness gone from those grey eyes and replaced with their usual storm.

"I told you, Draco. Just your type."

Harry saw Carol take a sip out of her beer, an I-Told-You-So expression taking over her features, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"His name's- actually, dear you never did tell me your name. Someone rudely interrupted us, didn't they? She glared at Malfoy, teasing him with her eyes. But he wasn't looking.

Harry tore his eyes from Malfoy's, smiling politely at Carol.

"I'm-"

"His name is Harry."

He almost spat the words, his voice so cold that Harry nearly shivered.

"Goodness, Draco, you are quite the interrupter today. You two know each other? So I was right, then, about him being your type? Oh my, you don't look pleased to see him... He broke your heart, yeah? Cause he is most certainly your-"

"Carol, if you say that he is my type one more time I will bludgeon you to death with that beer."

Carol visibly flinched, and Harry was willing to bet that she had never heard Draco make such a real threat before. What he'd witnessed of their relationship the few times he'd been in, it had seemed like playful banter. She recovered quickly though, and set about breaking the ice. Harry began to admire her bravery, because even though this was a challenge he'd faced a thousand times over the years, he was about to bolt.

"So, how do you two know each other then?"

The question was directed at Draco, who was still staring daggers at Harry. Desperate to not fuck this up, Harry jumped in.

"We went to school together."

"Oh, the mysterious boarding school in Scotland! Did you like it as much as Draco did?"

Harry smiled, genuinely pleased that, after everything, Draco found positive words for the school that Harry loved so much.

"I would say even more than he did, actually."

Draco snorted. "Jesus, Potter, is it always a competition with you?"

Harry smiled, because this was somehow better than what he'd expected. It felt almost natural that the first thing Malfoy said to him was a sort of insult. And it would be so easy to fall back into the pattern of hating Malfoy, and tossing insults back and forth... but he was so interested in what he'd uncovered already. Draco was willing to talk to Taylor, but Harry got Malfoy. Two sides of the same man, and now all Harry wanted was to find out which was the real Draco Malfoy. Tragic, really.

"Honestly, I just never knew that you actually liked school. Quite the surprise."

Malfoy blinked. He was clearly taken aback by Harry's civility. Which was completely fair, since he was pretty sure that he had never displayed it to Malfoy. At least, not that Malfoy was aware of. Harry instantly flashed back to all the meetings he'd had with the Wizengamot, the secret testimonies he'd given for the Malfoy family. He'd saved two out of three Malfoys, and that was enough for him. And as far as he knew, Draco had no idea.

"So are you drinking, or are you just here to annoy me?"

"Drinking. It's been a shit day."

"Right. Well, what'll it be, Saviour?"

"I don't know. Surprise me."

"How did I know you'd be difficult?"

"I'm not being difficult, I just don't know what I want to drink."

"It's not a hard choice, Potter."

"You're the bartender, isn't it your job to-"

"Boys!"

Carol's voice cut through the banter, sending Harry right back to his school days, a voice that was part Hermione and part McGonagall lecturing him in a very similar way. He looked from Carol to Malfoy, the absurdity of the whole thing making him want to giggle uncomfortably, but knowing Malfoy would somehow make it into something offensive if he did. He settled for a happy sigh instead, a shy smile taking over. Merlin, he felt weird.

"Right, just some scotch, then."

"On the rocks, or-"

"Draco, don't make this more complicated than it already is."

"Right. Right."

The tension was palpable. Harry wondered what Carol must be thinking right now. Just from the few times they'd met, he definitely got the sense that she was a bit of a gossip, but in the endearing sort of way.

"You called me Draco."

Harry stilled. Fuck, he had called him Draco. His few days as Taylor had landed him on that name. That was the name he'd introduced himself as, and it had just stuck. But that was Draco, and this was Malfoy. Fuck, Harry was so confused. He knew Draco... Malfoy, whomever, was a Gemini, and they're supposed to be two-faced, or two-sided, or what-the-fuck-ever. Not that he was well versed in astrology, it was a little too Trelawney for him, but he'd picked up a few things. It's Hermione's guilty pleasure. Which still amuses Harry to this day, since Divination is about the only thing that 'Mione is pants at.

"Er, yeah, that's uh... that's your name, so...?"

And then, a most miraculous thing happened. Draco laughed. A real laugh, not the bitter, cruel laugh he'd heard before. And years from now, when Harry would look back on this moment, it would be the moment he realised that he was well and truly fucked. Because he had made Draco Malfoy laugh, and the second it was over, he just wanted to do it again. And then maybe another time after that.

"I do know that, thank you. You've just never used my given name before."

"Well... I've never... Haven't seen you since..."

Harry accepted his drink from Draco gratefully, sipping it immediately, a welcome burn sliding down his throat as he drained a third of the glass easily. He chanced a glance at his bartender, whose eyes were maybe starting to sparkle again, one perfect eyebrow arched.

"Easy there, Potter, it's not that bad."

Harry had to agree. In fact, he couldn't quite remember why he had felt so desperate for a drink on his way over. Surely it wasn't that bad. Not as bad as the goddamn butterflies in his stomach popping champagne bottles, the corks slamming into the sides of his stomach; his heart the speaker of the party, the bass booming. As he sat there, he couldn't help but wonder where the fuck he would go from here. Five years had gone by, a war was behind them, he had used Draco's given name, Draco worked in a Muggle pub, he had made him laugh, and he was gay. Carol had pretty much spelled it out, and apparently he was just Draco's type. This information was not good news. It wasn't, not at all. It made Harry feel sick to his stomach, dizzy, nauseous, feverish. Angry even, like he was going to do something completely reckless, cast a spell on Carol just because he could, exposing wizards to Muggles. That was definitely his reaction. For sure.

Harry raised the glass to his lips, draining the rest of the scotch in one go. He snuck a glance at Draco over the glass' rim, watched his long fingers scratch mindlessly at his wrist. He wanted to ask about his tattoos, as himself, and see what his reaction would be. He wanted to ask why he got a job, and why this job. Wanted to know where he lived, did he still talk to any of his school friends, how was his mother, what was his drink of choice? He had a million and one questions and not a clue how to begin.

He sighed inwardly, watching the Draco's adam's apple bob as he had a sip of water. His eyes traveled down his throat, and nope, he definitely didn't want to graze it with his teeth, not at all. And whatever that tattoo was on his clavicle, peeking out of his shirt, taunting him, that definitely wasn't attractive, and he definitely did _not_ want to trace the ink with his tongue. Not. At. All.

"Potter. You're staring."

And he was, he totally was, and he was blushing too, he could feel himself flush. Cheryl would be so pleased. Harry wondered if she would make Draco blush, too. But he didn't imagine how the blond would look all flushed, and he definitely didn't wonder if the blush would stain just his cheeks, or if it would spread across his clavicle, and whatever those tattoos were, and maybe even farther down.

Godric, he was so, so fucked.

He hoped.

~xxx~X~xxx~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I'm the slowest updater ever, I've just had the worst writers block and I can't seem to write more than three sentences at a time. This chapter is dedicated to everyone that commented urging me to update... I honestly can't even convey how excited it makes me when I get comments/kudos on this fic. You are all gems. xx
> 
> Also dedicated to my beta Lem who has been my faithful beta for 7 years now and who I love so much I put her into this fic (I seem to be doing this a lot?)

It could never be just a normal day for Draco. His mother would owl with news about Andromeda or Teddy, Pansy would firecall about Blaise or Nott or whichever seeker she pulled earlier in the week. Or, apparently, Harry Potter would stumble in to his bar.

Because it made perfect sense for that to happen, of course. It wasn’t like Draco worked at a Muggle bar in _Muggle_ London or anything. He barely saw any Wizards at all, let alone the saviour of them all. He would sooner expect Dumbledore to stroll through the doors, and, you know. He’s dead.

But the thing that _really_ fucked with him was that it wasn’t as bad as he had anticipated. Sodding Carol had gotten his hopes up, squealing about someone at the bar being just his type. And he had turned on the charm, of course, prepared to dazzle his new suitor. So of course it would be Harry Potter. Why wouldn’t it be? But he had been pleasant and he had made Draco laugh, and that had definitely been new. Draco hated himself just a little for it, too, because he hadn’t meant for that to happen. He had turned on the ice, proof that old habits die hard, because he really didn’t have anything against Potter anymore. They were just two kids before, kids in a situation that they had no place to be in. If Weasley’s dad had been the one to worship the Dark Lord, Draco just as easily could have ended up Potter’s sidekick. He knew that now, knew that they were each a product of terrible circumstances. It had been five years since the war, after all. Draco had grown up. Some.

And he had seen Potter hovering in the back of his family’s trials; not saying anything, but sitting in the very back, making himself as small as possible. His trying to blend in was what made him stand out; nearly everyone else at the trial was fidgeting, whispering (poorly) to their neighbours about every little thing that had been said. So it was clear to Draco that the little idiot Gryffindor boy just might have done some growing up of his own.

But that still didn’t prepare him for a chance meeting at his bar. They had chatted casually, Carol hanging on every word, of course. Draco remembered making a mental note to never introduce her to Pansy, because he was sure that the whole world would somehow end up in flames from all their gossiping. Potter had asked him questions, dancing around the very obvious ones like, “what the hell are you doing here” and “so, you’re legitimately gay? I thought that was just some tripe the Prophet had printed.” Instead Draco had answered “How’s your mum” and “How did you get into bartending.” (She’s fine, thanks, and I stumbled upon it when I decided I needed to get out of the house).

Draco had ended the conversation when Potter had finished his drink. He said “It was nice to see you, er- to catch up.” He had actually said it, ever so smooth. And Potter had said “Yeah. Yeah, it really was. I’ll drop in again sometime soon.” And he had left, just like that. Like they were old mates that had bumped into each other in Diagon.

And as Potter left, Draco absolutely did not spare a glance at his arse. That statement is 100% false. Certainly.

~xxx~X~xxx~

Harry chanced a glance back at the bar (the bar, not Draco, honestly) as he opened the door to leave, and he may have done a little internal victory dance when he saw that Draco was watching him leave. Maybe. Just a little one. He watched Draco wave politely, and he didn’t think he was imagining the little half-smile that he saw. Harry returned the wave, and couldn’t help the grin that took over his face as he returned to the rain outside. Stomping through the puddles was much more fun now, and it turned into puddle jumping instead. The kind that you did when you were five, splashing around in your wellies without a care in the world, least of all how muddy your trousers were getting and who was going to wash it out. Granted, there was no mud now, and he could just use a cleaning charm, but. Semantics.

As Harry did his best Gene Kelly all the way back to his flat, he couldn’t help but replay the past half hour in his head. It was one of those strange time warps that seem so long while they’re happening, but as soon as it’s over and you think back on it, it feels like no time at all. And while he was thinking about it, he had to admit, if only to himself, that talking to Draco was easy. Once they had gotten past the iciness and he had made him laugh (Godric, he made Draco Malfoy laugh), conversation flowed. Harry blamed part of it on the fact that he hadn’t talked to the man in literally five years, so they had quite a bit to catch up on. But that part should have been cancelled out since Harry also could not recall a single civil conversation between them. But Harry is living proof that there’s a first time for everything.

He was pissed at himself for not asking the questions he really wanted the answers to. But he was also proud of himself for not asking them, because it would have been a surefire way to scare the living daylights out of Draco and make him reconsider just who he was going to bludgeon with the 40 of Guinness. Honestly, Harry was just glad he asked questions at all. It would have been much easier to drink his scotch down all in one go and dash out of the bar. He probably would have tripped.

He rounded the corner, his flat coming into view and the spark of a plan forming somewhere in a dusty corner of his mind that seemed to only conjure plans related to Draco Malfoy. So maybe this plan wasn’t about beating him at Quidditch or figuring out what he was up to that time in sixth year... but is a plan to seduce him really any more embarrassing than a plan to stalk him and get him expelled?

_I’m a grown man, I am 23 years of age. I can make my own decisions, and they are good decisions._

(The answer is yes. It is more embarrassing).

~xxx~X~xxx~

Draco woke up to the sun filtering in through his curtains, and he was not happy about failing to close them all the way. He rolled over indignantly and ran his hand through his hair, combing out the weird little tangles he got in his fringe over night. He was in a state, unsure if today would be a good day or a bad day... it probably would depend on who was in his bar. And he did not mean Harry Potter, he meant other guests. Carol... Charlie... Taylor, maybe... You know.

 He rushed his shower and his cuppa, making an extra cup to take with. Whenever he woke up in his weird head space, he always had an extra cup of Earl. It fortified him, made him feel like it was a special day and that he really had what he needed to face the world. Which was a bit silly, really, since he did carry a wand and could destroy anyone with two words, one breath. But tea had its own kind of magic.

He was dressed in one of his favourite shirts today, a light grey one with grey-blue sleeves that brought out his eyes (Merlin, he was such a ponce sometimes). It had lots of tiny buttons about halfway down the front, and he always left some undone because he liked to be able to see the tattoos on his clavicle. It was proven that some of his bar guests liked it, too. And if it used to bother him that he got tips for being fit, and not so much for being a great bartender, it definitely didn’t any longer.

He grabbed his tea off the counter, fiddling with the tag as he shoved his wand into his boot and left his flat. He settled for walking to the pub today, a nice late Spring day, and he let the sun warm his face. He remembered that he was wearing the same jeans as yesterday (thank Merlin for cleaning charms, yeah?) and dug out the tube of Smarties from his pocket. Smarties, tea, and the sun... he was ready for whatever this day had for him. 

_Bring it on, Carol._

As Draco pushed open the door to the pub he was surprised to see that it was empty, save for his favourite waitress. A grin immediately spread across his face as she turned to him and gave him a huge I-Can-See-All-32-Of-Your-Teeth smile, throwing her arms up in the air and almost knocking herself in the head with the broom she held.

“I’m ba-ack!”

Draco crossed to her in three long strides, giving her a wet kiss on the cheek, genuinely happy to see her.

“Rosemary, I absolutely did not expect to see you today.”

“Well don’t sound so excited, Draco.”

“Wow, Lem, you’ve been back for thirty seconds and you’re already trying to out-sass me. Let me just remind you that it’s never going to happen. Not ever.”

He shot her a wink as he snuck behind the bar, setting down his tea. Rosemary, or “Lem,” as he called her, was easily his favourite waitress the pub had. She started out as one of his regulars, would stop off on her way home from Uni once a week. Once a week quickly because twice a week, and then three times a week. She had worked at McDonald’s for ages, but Draco got her to come over to the dark side. She was adorable, had these massive blue eyes and a round face that made her look younger than she was- she hates it, he loves it. Draco loved her because she was just so... genuine. She’d had the same boyfriend for ages, almost 5 years now, and she was only 21. She still lives with her parents, and her dad works for the Tube. It was just so provincial and sweet, and Draco needed a dose of that in his life.

“So?”

 “So what, love?”

 “What have I missed? I’ve been gone for ages and I have to know _everything_. Every last detail, Draco, you’re my favourite source for gossip. Besides Carol.”

 “I will have you know that I am not a gossip. I only share tidbits with you and with Pansy. That does not a gossip make, Rosemary.”

She laughed and threw a dishrag at him. Now Draco was sure it was going to be a good day.

~xxx~X~xxx~

This was a terrible plan. This may have been Harry’s worst plan ever, and he had a whole book filled with terrible plans. Probably a whole library, depending on who you asked. He reached up to tug on his hair, but it didn’t feel right when he was in Taylor’s body. The hair was too soft and it just fell right back into place, doing nothing to calm his nerves. Bollocks.

 To his right, Cheryl would not shut up. Harry should not have taken her with him. She had refused to use Polyjuice when not on a case, so he really should have just stopped the plan right there. But Harry had a pretty solid track record of not knowing when to quit. And sometimes, it paid off. He was hoping now would be one of those times.

Harry had asked Cheryl to come to the pub with him after training, stumbling his way through an awkward explanation of ‘this is not a date’ and ‘I need your help scheming.’ She ate it up, because, of course, he was blushing so hard he should have caught on fire, and because she was a Slytherin- that’s why he asked her in the first place. And who else would he have asked, really? ‘Oh hey, Ron, did you want to come to Draco’s pub with me to spy on him cause I think I want to take him to dinner and then back to my flat so he can fuck me against the door. Are you free?’ That would go over really well. So he decided on someone from his class, they had to do what he said for the next three weeks. Harry chose Cheryl because he had a strong feeling that she could make anyone blush, and he really wanted to see how Draco reacted to her. Plus, she’s kind of the only one that he can tolerate outside of the classroom. She was actually pretty interesting when she wasn’t looking at him like she wanted to peel his clothes off and cover him in whipped cream. Harry found it intriguing that she still looked at him that way, even though she told Harry to his face that he’s gay. And it’s not even like he’s flamboyant, or even out, really. His close friends know, yeah, but he doesn’t, like, walk into class and say “Hello, I’m Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world and gay Auror.” She just knew. And Harry wanted to use her Sherlock-level gay deduction powers on Draco.

And Cheryl was just the type of person that couldn’t say no to free merlot and watching Harry drool over a hot boy. Even if Harry wasn’t in Harry’s own body. So, despite Harry’s better judgment, they walked to the pub, Harry filling Cheryl in every step of the way. Stories about their school days, about the times he’s been to the pub as Taylor, and the one time as himself. Cheryl didn’t have much to say, but after Harry had finished talking about school, she had said, “fine line.” Harry tended to agree.

~xxx~X~xxx~

 Draco wasn’t one to get his hopes up. But whenever he heard the door to the pub swing open, he made himself take a beat to breathe, and then look up. It had happened at least half a dozen times so far today, and it was never anyone he wanted to see, not even Carol. It was just people who wanted to eat, and it drove him mental. Lem had started keeping a tally of how many times he let out an exasperated sigh, and it was getting to be an embarrassingly high number. She was lucky they had the bar between them and that he loved her, because right now he really wanted to crucio her. Or at least a jelly-legs jinx. He was getting restless.

But the next time the door swung open, a smirk spread across his face, and Lem turned to him immediately, recognising Taylor from Draco’s not-gossip. Draco gave great descriptions, and he was very observant. (Taylor’s eyes weren’t just brown, they were cognac with honey at the centre, and he had long straight fingers that Draco wanted to do really dirty things with).

The grin faded a little when a woman stepped out from behind Taylor. Draco heard Lem let out a little giggle, stifled from behind her hand, as he waved to Taylor and whoever the trollop was. (That’s the exact second when Draco knew it was getting bad. He was not the jealous type, yet here he was. Being jealous).

“Hey, stranger. It’s been a few days.” Draco was cool, he was so cool and so slick (he was sweating).

“Yeah, er- hi.”

“I’m Rosemary!” And there she went, waving a napkin and grinning at Taylor. Draco was going to kill her.

“Oh, right, er, introductions. This is Cheryl, she’s in my class.”

“The hopeless class that drove you to drink at 3 pm last week?”

Taylor laughed and Draco made a mental tally of the success.

“That’s the one. Chezza's, um... not so bad. Improved a lot in just a week.”

“So you rewarded her by taking her out? That’s an interesting method you have there.”

Taylor smiled and Draco knew he saw right through the sarcasm. He was losing his touch and that just would not do.

“Speaking of taking me out, you said you were buying. Draco, a glass of merlot, if you will?”

“Sorry _Cheryl_ , but I can’t help but recall that I did not introduce myself to you... yet somehow you know my name.”

“This one won’t shut up about you. And may I just say he _really_ did not do you justice.”

She was practically growling at Draco, and he had a terrible vision of her climbing up onto the bar and crawling towards him, unbuttoning her top as she went. She was definitely attractive, for a woman, but no. Just no. He granted her a smile and turned reached above the bar to grab a wine glass.

“And for you, Taylor?”

“Whatever you want, Draco.”

Draco swallowed, those words igniting him. He felt his adam’s apple scratch up and down his dry throat; his jaw tightened, and he felt his cheek muscles flex. He looked down and there were Taylor’s cognac eyes, burning into his, the honey bits at the centre turning gold and actually looking like they were about to catch on fire. Draco licked his lips, refusing to look away from Taylor’s eyes. He lives for tension like this, it made his veins crawl and his fingertips twitch.

“Let’s start with scotch.”

~xxx~X~xxx~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you want to see the first bit of action yet? Cause it's there... if you squint... (;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been ten months (oops I am the worst) but I finally updated this. I think I noted somewhere that literally the only reason I wrote this fic is because I wanted one where Draco had a sleeve, couldn't find one, and made my own. I decided there would be an involved plot, but wrote it without really deciding where it would go. Well I finally decided what the hell I'm doing, so maybe I'll update at a pace other than glacial now. (: This is un-betaed cause I'm always in a rush and it's like 4:30 am rn where my beta lives. Also there is an absurd amount of princess references in this chapter. And maybe a poorly veiled musical theatre one. Don't let it derail you.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to all the people who have commented here and on ff.net and dA and everywhere else asking me to post and telling me how much they love it. You have no idea how much that spurs me on. (((:

 

“Let’s start with scotch” turns out to be Harry’s new favourite phrase.

It’s late now, late enough that Harry is definitely drunk on scotch (and Draco) and he thinks Cheryl probably is, too.He knows he’s supposed to be worried about something, paying attention to the time for some reason or another, but he can’t be arsed to remember why that is at the moment.He knows that he hasn’t got to teach tomorrow, and that’s, well.That’s definitely good considering his current state. 

And he’s so glad he brought Cheryl along, fairly certain that he would’ve thrown the towel in way before now had she not been here.She’s keen on Draco, thinks he’s gorgeous, and probably thinks a thousand other dirty things about him.She hasn’t said as much, Draco’s barely left them all night.  But Harry can tell.  There’s no sign of Carol or Charlie, and even Rosemary has left them.He likes Rosemary, likes her sparkly eyes and her blonde hair.He loves blondes.He loves everyone. 

That might be something to do with the fact that his dinner was cheesecake (Cheryl’s idea) and he thinks she said it was something do to with it sopping up all the scotch he drank (and the whiskey and the rum) but he’s also pretty sure that only helps when you digest the food.And he’s almost certain that his slice of cheesecake is floating in his stomach in Scotch Sea.

Scotch sea.Scotch sea makes him think of Hogwarts, of bonny Scotland.And yup, he’s definitely drunk.It’s been ages since he’s been this loaded; he tries to remember the last time and all that surfaces is a grainy memory of him and Ron sitting in Grimmauld Place a few years back drinking Firewhisky in front of the fire and trying to think of words that rhyme with ‘orange.’Anyway, he can’t think of any now, either, and his eyes hurt.They hurt and they’re blurry and he thinks it’s probably time to call it a night. 

He turns to Chezza to tell her as much, going to use some excuse like ‘if we have one more drink it’ll be very hard for me to pretend to be your superior on Monday’ and as soon as they make eye contact she makes a weird little squeak.It’s a very funny squeak to Harry, and he feels his face spreading into a grin.

Cheryl winks at him, and that just doesn’t make sense to Harry.

“Chezza, I _told_ you, I’m gaaaaay.”He draws it out for emphastats.Emulance.Emphasis.That’s the one.“You don’t need to wink at me, save your winks for someone who will appreciate ‘em!Pretty eyeballs, though, Chez.Very nice.”

“Er... maybe I should get you home.”

Harry shrugs happily, not really minding what happens next.His face feels kind of like clay and he thinks that probably isn’t good.

 “Whatever you say, Cheryl.  Cause you’re old enough to be my mum so you’re the boss.  The boss with your winking and your strange squeaking.  But really I’m your boss.”

He watches her lean into Draco, stage whispering into his ear like Harry isn’t sitting right here.

“You know, some guys just can’t hold their arsenic.”

Harry thinks that’s a pretty stupid thing to say since he was drinking _scotch_ , but he lets her have it.

“Alright, Taylor?

And yup, that sets off the bell in Harry’s fog brain.Polyjuice, polyjuice doesn’t last forever.That’s why his eyes are fuzzy, he needs glasses again, he needs to go soon- now, before he starts to change back.He feels like Cinderella.Not because he did all the chores for his evil step family, because he’s going to turn into a pumpkin.A Harry pumpkin.  Suddenly the fogginess isn’t fun anymore, because he can’t think right, can’t think how to leave without falling over and embarrassing himself, because that’s _Draco_ and Draco never falls over and Harry doesn’t think Taylor falls over either so he just has to wing it.  

“Yeah, mate, yeah.I’m ready, I’m just thinking about Cinderella, you know.”

He thinks Cheryl should understand that, knows she was raised Muggle like him and the reference isn’t lost on her.She nods a little and backs her stool up, standing far too gracefully for the amount of wine she drank.He needs to take lessons from her.

He puts a few more pounds on the table, trying to count them out right when he hears Draco ask “Cinderella?”

“Yeah,” he says, stacking up the pounds into little columns, “she’s a princess.”

Draco barks out a laugh, and it’s short, over before it even started, but Harry loves making Draco laugh.

“I know who she is, Taylor.  Why are you thinking about her?Fancy a glass slipper for yourself?I can be your fairy godmother, if you like.”

And Harry’s vision might be blurring, but he can still tell when he’s being smouldered at and now is one of those times.He can almost feel the heat reverberating off of Draco.And here he is, talking about Cinderella.Fuck.

“It’s just my train of thought... have you ever seen Anastasia?It’s another princess movie and at one part they’re in a train and Rasputin sends these little green demons to derail it to kill Anastasia, you know, cause he wants to kill all the Romanovs, and anyway the demons set it on fire and derail it and that’s what my train of thought is like.It’s on fire and completely derailed and driven by little green demons.” 

Draco just nods.He thinks he hears Cheryl laughing into her hand, but he can’t look away from Draco to check.Harry is such a bloody idiot.

“Well anyway, I was thinking about Cinderella because she isn’t a very good princess.She complains too much.No one likes their families and everyone has to do chores.Unless they have house elves.There are people that aren’t even as well off as her, she’s just the worst princess.  Proper awful.”

Draco smiles again.Harry really likes it when he does that.Draco also seems to be leaning in to whisper into Harry’s ear.He’s never done that before, but Harry is very, very certain that he’s going to like that as well.

“Well, Taylor... you probably should get home.Before you out the Wizarding World to this bar full of Muggles.”

Harry can’t breathe, Draco’s breath is so hot on his ear and he’s mad at himself for letting it get this out of hand, he can’t believe he’s drunk enough to bring up house elves, Merlin.He watches Draco pull back, makes eye contact with him before he leans back in and says, 

“But it _is_ nice to know you’re like me.”

He punctuates the sentence by licking the shell of Harry’s ear, right in the middle, and it’s so small that it could be an accident, or Harry’s imagination, but when Draco pulls back and goes to fill up a glass, tongue flicking out over his bottom lip before shooting a smirk in Harry’s direction, he knows it was on purpose.His whole body ignites at that, the pool of alcohol in his stomach burning, and it takes everything he has not to get hard on the spot.Fucking hell.

He pushes his bar stool back, joining Cheryl in the land of the standing (swaying) and runs a hand through his hair.She starts walking toward the door, and he’s helpless to do anything but follow.Before he lets the door fall behind him, though, he gathers up his damn Gryffindor courage and lets out a small “cheers, mate.”It feels monumental.

~xxx~XXX~xxx~

Draco says a big ‘fuck it’ to being careful and apparates home.He’s certain that he’s the last one in the pub, so he locks up and steps out back, hiding between the skip and the wall of the pub.

He lands in his bedroom with a pop and immediately falls back onto his bed, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands.Today was... eventful.He had flirted with a man, while he was on the job, and while the man was completely intoxicated.Not to mention that he had only spent a collective hour or two with Taylor prior to this evening.Merlin, he was just thankful Lem had left before the ear-licking incident.She would never have let him hear the end of it.Things like, “Draco, you weren’t even the one drinking” and “you’re completely insane.”And she wouldn’t be out of line to say those things, which is what really irritates him.

He heaves a big sigh, forcing himself upright and into the kitchen for a cuppa. _Orange and cinnamon,_ he thinks _._ Sweet to curb his cravings and spicy to clear out his brain.In theory.If he was being honest, it reminded him of Taylor... he smelt like cinnamon, and when Draco had tasted him (honestly, what was he thinking) he even tasted slightly like it.And Draco had been using the same shampoo for years; Pansy had gotten it for him just after the war at some French shoppe.The oranges were from Provence or something, and it was all very expensive and luxurious and it smelled divine.So now Draco smelled like oranges and he drank this stupid tea that reminded him of Taylor and himself.Ridiculous 

What bothers him most about Taylor is that he’s really not that special.Draco can’t pinpoint a single reason why he’s so gone over this man.He’s not Draco’s usual type, not physically, not intellectually either, really.He’s attractive, yes, but he’s all kind of beige- sandy hair, tan skin, hazel eyes.No stand-out features, no contrast.And yes, he held his own in conversation tonight before he started to really imbibe, but nothing that really threw Draco for a loop.Yet somehow, here he is, ready to curse a blue streak over this man he’s known for five minutes.Honestly. 

He tries to let it go for the evening, strips down on his way back to the bedroom, clothes strewn through the hallway.He’ll make Cinderella pick them up.He tucks himself into bed and finds it feels more heavenly than normal.Of course, he can’t get Taylor’s stupid face out of his mind, keeps replaying the last five minutes of their time together over and over.When he finally falls asleep, it’s nearly light outside. 

~xxx~XXX~xxx~

Draco wakes up to sun streaming in, so warm he can feel it on his eyelids.For once he isn’t even irritated by it, needs that extra boost to get him up for the day.He had been plagued all night by strange dreams of Taylor dressed as Cinderella, cooking for him and doing his laundry, the cleaning.It isn’t a kink Draco wishes to explore further.

He pulls himself out of bed, stretching as he walks to the kitchen, kicking the clothes from last night out of the way.He needs tea.Lots of tea.Then he would tidy up, maybe go to Diagon, have lunch with Pansy.It had been a while,and he needed someone to talk to about this Taylor nonsense before he went completely mental.  

And maybe also about Harry Potter.Just because Taylor had been front and centre in his mind last night doesn’t mean that he's forgotten about Potter.Sodding Carol wasn’t wrong about him being Draco’s type.It made him so furious when he first realised, just after the war.He spent years going against the grain, dating blonds or men with dark eyes just to prove that he could.But whenever he saw someone that looked like Potter, bright eyes and dark hair, he couldn’t help but steal a second glance.And now that he’s had a refresher, been brought up to date on what the Saviour looks like now... well, he really wouldn’t mind a Taylor/Harry threesome.Except that he really doesn’t share well.

~xxx~XXX~xxx~ 

Harry wakes up and immediately wishes that he hadn’t.He doesn’t remember what it was like getting his scar, but he imagines that it felt something like this.He fumbles around in his bedside drawer, looking for a vial of hangover potion, or even some muggle paracetamol.All he finds is some lube.He feels like this is a giant metaphor for his life, always fucking himself.

He lets out a little smile at the thought, feeling slightly clever at the metaphor, given his current state.It’s enough to get him up, leaning against the wall and using it to slide down the hall so he doesn’t have to hold his entire body weight.He’s a genius. 

He makes the miraculous discovery of hangover potion in his bathroom cupboard, downing it all in one go and almost able to ignore the disgusting taste.He knows it will be worth it in the long run.He makes it to the kitchen, able to hold himself up a little better and even kind of able to open his eyes without regretting it.He puts the kettle on and goes in search of his glasses, unsure of where he left them last night before he went out as Taylor.He finds them in between his sofa cushions (of course) and shoves them on his nose, happy to find that makes his head hurt just a tiny bit less.He’ll be better in no time.And it’s _Saturday_.  

Saturday means a whole free day.He plans to spend it eating an absurd amount of biscuits with his tea and then perhaps taking Hermione to lunch, if he can get away with it.He needs to tell someone about this absurdity, someone other than Cheryl, someone who lived through it the first time.He has an inkling that Hermione will be slightly more receptive than Ron.Ron has made it clear countless times that he’s fine with the whole gay thing, even got over Harry never getting back together with Ginny.It’s the Malfoy thing that Harry thinks Ron will get stuck on.And he’s not sure he could blame him.Harry’s pretty stuck on it, too.

He feels a stupid smile blooming and reaches up to tug on his hair.On his way there he brushes his ear, and heat pools in his stomach as the memories come flooding back.Draco licked his ear.

Draco _licked_ his ear and whispered something about them being the same and he may have meant wizards, since Harry stupidly brought up house elves, but he’s pretty sure he meant gay, since Harry also remembers slurring about that.He doesn’t know whether to kill Cheryl for letting him (making him) get that drunk or kiss her for all the winking making his drunk brain think it was necessary to remind her that he’s a ponce.

He thinks he’ll wait until he runs into Draco again to decide.The question now is when that will happen.And who he’ll be when it does.

Harry sighs and rolls off the couch, finally time for a cuppa.He thinks he has hobnobs somewhere in his cupboards and maybe even that well delicious fudgefrom Fortescue’s.And then maybe he’ll make a cheese toasty.Anything is possible.

He smiles, because right now that statement feels quite true.Anything is possible because Draco Malfoy likes him.Well, likes Taylor.But Taylor is him, so.He pours his tea and vows to find a way to see this through.He has Cheryl pulling for him, and after today he’ll have Hermione.He’s made it this far, and Gryffindor habits die hard.Hard.It’s probably time for a shower. 

He takes his cuppa and biscuits with him into the shower and absolutely does not have a wank and think about Draco Malfoy.And when he spills over, losing it pathetically quickly, it’s definitely not to the memory of Draco’s tongue on his ear.  

But if it was... well, he’s starting to get over it.Because he plans on getting used to those tongue being all over him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that was enough of an update for you!
> 
> Say hi if you wanna:  
> twitter.com/BlouBlooded or twitter.com/_GetOffMySheet  
> spaghettiandthemoon.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys cross paths again, embarrassment ensues. Hermione and Pansy ship it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time that I didn't update this in 2015 at all? My sincerest apologies... I will leave you with the excuse that I have been too busy actually hanging out in Diagon Alley. Seriously, I got a job in the Wizarding World working on the Hogwarts Express. It's provided me with too many fic ideas and no time at all to write them.

Diagon with Pansy had turned out to be a great idea. It was kind of shitty of him, but Draco had a tendency to forget how much he actually loved Pansy. She’d been there with him through absolutely everything, and even though their friendship had been reduced to coffee and lunch dates recently, she knew him better than anyone. Blame it on the birth to earth, slightly creepy, pureblood arranged friendship-marriage deal they were a part of, but she was alright. Draco would keep her.

The sun that had woken him up bright and early had stuck around, a rarity for London even in Summer, and it left Draco with a hankering for ice cream. Plus it was always adorable to watch Pansy attempt to eat ice cream... her perfectly manicured hand wrapped around the cone and her lipstick-trimmed mouth chasing all of the drips before they could reach her fingers. He laughed a little just thinking about it.

“Draco, I just can’t understand why this is such an issue for you. You’ve not been laid in ages, and you have two men to choose from. This is the opposite of a problem.” She stuck her tongue out, chasing a hundred and thousand from the corner of her mouth.

“It’s a _problem_ , Pansy, because one of the men I have to choose from is Harry bloody Potter. Earthquakes would rock the planet, pigs would fly, the Titans would escape from Tartarus... it wouldn’t be good.” He would accompany this speech with some dramatic gestures, but even Potter wasn’t worth spilling Fortescue’s Earl Grey & Lavender ice cream. Priorities.

“You know I love your flair for dramatics, and I do understand where you’re coming from. But can’t you see that your entire young life built up to this moment? Potter refusing your offer of friendship, your rivalry that continued through six years of school, Potter saving you from fiendfyre... _And_ as if that wasn’t enough proof, your obsession with him that entire time? An obsession that led you to figure out that you prefer the company of men? Men that happen to look a lot like one Harry Potter? You’ve already been dragged by the Prophet for being seen with men that you didn’t even care about and that you didn’t even... _enjoy_ that much. Would it be any worse to be dragged for someone you do care about, whom you probably would enjoy? Someone like--”

“Harry...”

“Exactly! I should have known a monologue would get through to you, you absolute drama queen.”

“No Pansy, he’s here...! Just there, with Granger! Salazar, hide me! This is _not_ the time!!!”

“Draco, your whispering and flailing is causing a stir, you are bringing attention to yourself.”

“Pansy please, I’m serious, I’m wearing my lazy jeans and I didn’t wash my hair today and this is not how I want to look when I begin to seduce Harry Fucking Potter!”

Pansy was laughing. She was laughing and Draco was murderous.

“Pansy, stop it this instant!”

“I hate to break it to you, love, but it’s a little too late. Your squealing has gone to the high pitched mandrake place and you dropped your ice cream on your shoe. And don’t start jumping up and down trying to swat it off, because he’s staring at you.”

“Well fuck me with a cauldron cake, this is just bloody perfect.”

“Smile, Draco," she said with a wave, "They’re walking this way.”

~xxx~XXX~xxx~

“‘Mione, why is my life like this?”

“Calm down, Harry, at least you don’t have ice cream on your shoe, look at the poor man. Now get that fudge off of your chin and let’s go over there.”

He gave himself a little shake, bracing himself. He had this. He totally had this, and he was going to be suave.

“Alright, Draco?” He reached a hand out for Draco to shake, immediately regretting his decision because it was the definition of deja vu. Merlin, he could even see Madame Malkin’s from where they were standing. His breath caught.

He watched Draco’s hand twitch, saw his face freeze. And then, so slowly that Harry was pretty sure someone cast a slow motion spell, Draco reached for his hand. Harry heard Hermione gasp and saw Pansy’s hand fly up to her mouth, but when he finally made eye contact with Draco, well, he was pretty sure he could feel the world stop spinning.

“Yeah, alright Harry. Just testing out the new Summer trend of ice cream shoe.”

He was funny and Harry was still holding his hand. He dropped it immediately.

“Yeah, sorry about that. D’you want some fudge instead? It’s butterbeer flavour.”

Draco smiled. The real smile, the gentle kind he had given Taylor. Harry shoved fudge in his mouth to keep from drooling. He was proper good at this. Truly.

“No, thank you, I actually don’t really care for butterbeer.”

Harry tried to make a surprised noise, because honestly who _doesn’t_ like butterbeer, but it just resulted in him choking on his fudge. Perfect. That’s how you win over a Malfoy. Thankfully Hermione stepped in, always there to save his arse. Bless her.

“This one lives for it in any form it comes in. It’s a little excessive, really.”

Harry swallowed the fudge, coughing to clear out his throat. “Yeah, thanks for that, ‘Mione, I really appreciate you taking the piss while I choke to death. The Dark Lord couldn’t defeat me, but that fudge might have.” He took it back- he was going to kill Hermione.

The girls laughed, and Harry was scared. He wasn’t sure what would happen if Hermione and Pansy ever became friends, but he _was_ sure that he didn’t want to find out. Draco seemed to have the same idea.

“Well, this has been... enlightening. I’ll see you round the pub, Harry? I need to warm up my icicle foot, lest I leave my shoe here like Cinderella.” And with that, Draco spun on his heel, grabbing Pansy’s hand as he left.

Which Harry would be eternally grateful for, since he had already opened his mouth to comment on Cinderella. For an auror, he was not very good at the undercover, two separate lives thing. Fuck.

“Well,” Hermione said, “It could have been worse?”

 

~xxx~XXX~xxx~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a measly update, but I figured it was better than nothing. Follow my real life wizard adventures on insta if you like (@geetaylormarie) or on snap (@xgeetaylormarie). Hopefully my gratuitous photos of Foretescue's ice cream and videos of dragons breathing fire will be enough to tide you over in between fic updates (:


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